


you know me better than the truth

by fantasy_spoilers8



Series: sight of the sun [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Casual Intimacy, Character Study, Coming Out, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Foster Care, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Non-binary Marquis de Lafayette, Panic Attacks, Piano, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Songfic, Sort Of, Trans Alexander Hamilton, Trans Male Character, basically that scene from the corpse bride but platonic, name discovery, unsafe binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-06 09:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16829488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantasy_spoilers8/pseuds/fantasy_spoilers8
Summary: A tryptich of one-shots documenting Alexander and Lafayette's friendship as they make their way through High School while living with the Washingtons.-Or, the one where even Alexander and Lafayette aren't sure who they are yet.





	1. When I Hear a Song, it Sounds like a Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the piano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in September of Alex and Lafayette's Sophomore year of High School.
> 
> Alex is the Washingtons' foster child, but Lafayette is staying with them while in America, as his parents are family friends of theirs. 
> 
> Alex and Lafayette both think they're cis in the beginning of this story. 
> 
> So, I'll be using "Gilbert" and he/him to refer to Lafayette. I'll also be using either "Catherine" or "Kit" and she/her to refer to Alex.

Gilbert was at a loss.

Ever since Catherine had arrived, she had been extremely withdrawn. She almost never seemed to say anything. Except, of course, on those rare occasions when a flood of words would suddenly escape from her mouth before she had a chance to quickly clap a hand over it.

Gilbert knew she had a lot to say. He knew she felt like if she shared all of her ideas and opinions the way she wanted to, she would be shot down.

Gilbert had raised his concerns to Martha one morning. Martha had only shaken her head and assured Gilbert that her new foster child would open up sooner or later. It was only a matter of waiting for her to feel comfortable.

On one especially slow Saturday, Gilbert was getting dressed in his room when he heard faint music coming from downstairs. He frowned. Martha had gone out shopping, and George had been called into work. Surely that wasn’t...no. There was no way Catherine would be consciously making noise that she knew would attract the attention of other people.

But it had to be her. No one else was home. Gilbert strained his ears and realized the music was coming from a piano. _Was that the Moonlight Sonata?_ Perhaps Catherine was playing a record from George’s collection.

Gilbert slowly made his way downstairs so he wouldn’t startle her. The music had started out tentative, only a few quiet notes here and there. But slowly, it was growing.

This was definitely not one of George’s records.

Gilbert made it to the last step on the staircase and hesitated. Now that he was in the living room, he could clearly hear that the music was coming from George’s study.

George had had a piano lugged in there last year, much to Martha’s chagrin.

“But you don’t even play!” she had protested.

George had only smiled, like he knew something she didn’t. “It’s really just for the look of it, darling,” he had said. “But who knows? Maybe this will inspire one of us to play someday.”

Martha had shaken her head, bemoaning the loss of space and fussing over the scratches on the floor as the large piano was brought into the house, but Gilbert could tell she was secretly pleased.

Gilbert inched over to George’s study. He hadn’t seen the piano since the day it was moved in, but he remembered what it looked like.

The Washingtons were many things, but poor was not one of them.

George had gone all out when he bought this piano. It wasn’t one of those electric keyboards propped up on a plastic stand and plugged into a speaker, like so many people had nowadays. 

No matter how much Gilbert had begged him not to buy a piano with ivory keys, as elephants suffered so much for them to be made, George had insisted. It was a vintage piano anyway, he had argued, so what’s the harm?

The piano nearly took up half the room. It had a proper stool to sit on, handcrafted pedals of brass underneath, and one of those convertible tops that you could prop open if you wanted your sound to be louder and fuller.

Gilbert had never gotten around to learning more than Hot Cross Buns, but when they first bought the piano, he had sat down and played the few notes he knew with a sense of awe. People said you couldn’t tell the difference between electronic pianos and the real thing, but in that moment, Gilbert had known they were wrong. Even with his inexpertise, he could tell that by pressing down on the keys, you became part of something magical.

Even without playing the piano, you could still feel a sense of wonder. It was very old (which was mostly the reason why George couldn’t resist it), and every fiber of the wood seemed to overflow with spirit. Gilbert wasn’t a very mystical person, but even he knew that when you touched this piano, you could feel a very tangible _something_ , some sense of all the things it had seen and all the people that had poured their hearts into it.

Gilbert turned the corner toward George’s study and saw the door was ajar. He slowly pushed it open, crossing his fingers and hoping to God that it wouldn’t creak.

It did creak, but it didn’t seem to matter. Catherine was sitting at the piano, looking completely enthralled by what she was doing.

She was sitting on the piano bench, her feet not even touching the ground. Her long black hair was cascading down her back and hanging in front of her face, and Gilbert was almost completely sure she was wearing his sweatshirt. At least, it definitely didn't belong to her; she was drowning in it.

She had changed the song she was playing. This one was extremely melancholy, yet mysterious. Gilbert stood there in the doorway for much longer than he intended, completely mesmerized. The song sounded like a song of mourning- no, not that. It was as if someone was crying over a dead loved one with a half-smile on their face, lifted from their grief by the triumphant knowledge that they knew something you didn’t.

Catherine’s hands flew across the keys, not missing a single note with her deft fingers even as she grew faster and faster. The music would have sounded almost crazed, manic and angry, if it weren’t for the sweet, raw sadness behind every note.

Gilbert suddenly felt like an intruder as he realized Catherine was crying.

He cleared his throat so Catherine would know he was there. He winced when she visibly jumped, but he didn’t know an easier way for him to announce his presence.

She whipped around to face him and he was completely taken aback by the raw emotion on her face.

“That was very beautiful,” he said as softly as he could. “I didn’t know you played.”

Catherine hurriedly wiped the tears from her face. As Gilbert continued to stand there, she only blinked at him. Gilbert realized abashedly that she must have thought she was going to get in trouble.

He smiled at her and stepped closer. “George won’t care. In fact, both of the Washingtons will be _absolument ravi_ to hear that someone is using this thing.”

“Really?” Catherine said, so quietly Gilbert almost didn’t catch it.

“Of course,” he said. “If I may ask, what was it that you were playing?”

Catherine’s shoulders sank down and the rest of her visibly relaxed as she saw Gilbert was genuinely interested.

“It was Mozart’s Requiem,” she said, her eyes suddenly bright.

“I started with just the Lacrimosa,” she continued, her gestures getting wider with every word, “but I know the whole thing so I thought why the hell not, I mean, it’s not like I expected anyone to be home, Mrs. Washington said she was going to the store and I heard Mr. Washington leave earlier to go to work, and I was sure that you had gone out or gone with Mrs. Washington or something, I definitely didn’t think that you’d be home-” Catherine abruptly cut herself off.

Gilbert’s heart sank. He wished she would let herself talk more. Then something Catherine had said snagged in his brain. “Ma amie, did you say you know the whole thing?”

“Well, yeah,” she said in that same quiet voice as before.

“You mean, you weren’t reading sheet music?”

Catherine shook her head. “Mr. Washington doesn’t have any.”

Gilbert gaped at her.

“But- how-” he spluttered. “ _Tu veux dire que tu l'as mémorisé?_ ”

“Ouais,” Catherine said nervously. “Tu...tu crois que ça va?”

Wait a second.

“Hold on,” Gilbert said. “You speak Français?”

“Oui, c’est ma langue maternelle.”

Gilbert gaped at her. How could he not know this? They had lived together in the same house for almost a month now. He suddenly felt enormously guilty for listening to Martha and giving the girl space. He should have tried his best to get to know her from the start.

He realized Catherine was still looking at him, biting her lip with nerves.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Of course I am ok with it, ma amie! I think it’s absolutely amazing that you can memorize things like that. And I am delighted that you speak French.” He chuckled. “Finally, I have someone to talk to without having to always worry about finding the right...how you say? _Tranduction.”_

Catherine gave him a small smile and he almost jumped for joy. “Translation.”

“Oui, that.”

Gilbert made as if to sit next to her on the bench, but then he hesitated. “Could...could you show me how?”

Catherine blinked at him. “How to what?”

Gilbert laughed. “To play, of course. I am a man of many talents, and women from all over the world swoon in my presence, but I can barely play Chopsticks.”

Catherine laughed, _actually, truly laughed,_ and Gilbert beamed so hard he felt like his face would rip in two.

“Sure,” she said. “I could show you a little, I guess.” She patted the seat next to her and looked at him expectantly.

Gilbert gingerly sat down next to her on the bench. “Thank you, Catherine.”

Catherine winced. “Can...can you call me Kit instead? I really don’t like that name.”

“Of course, Kit!” Gilbert grinned. “Why, is Catherine too illustrious for your taste?”

Kit giggled. “You can say ‘illustrious’ but not ‘translation’?”

Gilbert pouted. He put his hand over his brow like a damsel in distress. “Everyone, Kit is attacking me, when all I have ever done is prostrate myself before her in demonstration of my loyalty!”

Kit shoved his arm. “Shut up.”

Gilbert gave up the act and watched, eyes glued to Kit’s hands, as she began to play.

* * *

Martha Washington had had a very long day, and it was barely even noon.

Her arms were filled to the brim with packages, and she was very proud of herself for being able to carry all of them in one trip. However, she had forgotten that she’d need to unlock the door. After a lot of maneuvering, she managed to pry her keys out of her pocketbook and slide them into the lock.

Struggling under the weight of the bags, she shoved the door open and held it there with her foot. Martha staggered into the house to place the bags on the counter. Well, she liked to think of it as ‘placing;’ she really threw them down with all her might, glad to finally be rid of the things. But nobody needed to know that.

Martha huffed a breath and shook out her sore arms. Honestly. She really should have made Gilbert come with her, “beauty sleep” be damned.

“I’m home!” she called. There was no answer.

She frowned. That was strange. Even if Gilbert was still lounging around in bed, Catherine always poked her head in when she heard the door.

Martha busied herself with putting away the groceries as she listened for either the quiet footsteps of her foster daughter creeping up behind her or the loud singing of her French ward as he got ready for the day.

But instead, she heard something she didn’t expect. Was that...music? Coming from George’s study?

Martha put down the jar of tomato sauce she was holding and went over to the study. She gasped in amazement when she realized the piano was being played.

She tiptoed to the door and poked her head around the frame.

Catherine and Gilbert were sitting on the piano bench together. They didn’t quite fit, but each seemed perfectly content to be half-hanging off of the seat. Gilbert was playing a stilted melody and Catherine was-

Catherine was _laughing._

“Gil, that’s not how you do it at all!” Catherine said in between giggles.

Gilbert huffed a sigh and sank down dramatically. “I will never get it, ma chatonne!”

Catherine giggled even louder.

“Why the hell are you calling me your kitten?”

“It is fitting, non?” Gilbert said, laughing. “You are very small, and love warm things, like my sweater. And anyway, it sound just like your name! Kit is very close to kitten, is it not?”

Her hand over her mouth and her eyes shining, Martha turned away from the door before they could see her, and went back into the kitchen to finish putting the groceries away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you enjoyed it, hated it, or just feel like keyboard smashing for any reason.


	2. I Wish That My Lips Could Build a Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with Doctor Who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place about six months after the first chapter. Since it's from Alex's POV, and he uses "Hamilton" to refer to himself (at least for the beginning), that's how I will be referring to him.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Transgender/Trans* is an encompassing term of many gender identities of those who do not identify or exclusively identify with their sex assigned at birth. The term transgender is not indicative of gender expression, sexual orientation, hormonal makeup, physical anatomy, or how one is perceived in daily-_

There was a soft knock at Hamilton’s door. She almost jumped out of her skin where she was sitting on the bed and slammed her laptop shut.

“Ouias?” Hamilton called, wincing as she realized how much the duct tape around her chest was digging into her skin.

Gil’s muffled voice came through the door. “It’s me.”

Hamilton frowned. Gilbert’s voice sounded extremely soft, and it wasn’t just the door separating them. Normally, Gilbert would’ve said that sentence in a sing-song voice, bursting through her door and throwing himself on her bed. Something was going on.

“Can- can I come in, chatonne?” Gilbert said in an even softer voice.

Hamilton rolled her eyes at Gil’s nickname for her. _I’ll give you ‘kitten’._ Hamilton threw the blankets off her legs and trudged over to the door. She tore it open, almost manically scratching at the back of her neck and tearing most of the hair out of her bun as she squinted at Gilbert’s face.

“Pourquoi es-tu contrarié?” Hamilton said groggily, as she hadn’t spoken to another human being in at least five hours.

Gilbert pouted. “I am not upset, chatonne.”

Hamilton stared Gilbert down with an unimpressed expression.

“ _Je ne suis pas!_ I just wanted to...tsé…” Gilbert’s voice tapered off and he just kept standing in Hamilton’s doorway, worrying his lip between his teeth and staring at the floor.

Hamilton rolled her eyes. She _knew_ nothing actually bad was going on. Gilbert was just being a drama queen for the sake of being a drama queen. Most likely, he’d had some petty fight with Adrienne and wanted Hamilton to sympathize with him about it.

Hamilton turned her back on Gilbert and sat back on her bed, knowing without looking that Gilbert was following behind her.

Gilbert sat across from Hamilton with his legs crossed together, mirroring her.

“Start talking, buddy,” Hamilton said.

Gilbert sighed dramatically, his whole body sinking as he did it. “It is not that I do not _want_ to talk, en soi, I am just...timide, I suppose.”

Hamilton snorted. “ _You? Shy?_ Dude, do you not remember the time when you shouted ‘Vive la révolution!’ and ran out of the room in the middle of history class, just because some kid said they didn’t think the French Revolution from the fucking _eighteenth century_ was all that important?”

An indecipherable look crossed Gilbert’s face. “This is…different.”

Hamilton felt a shard of ice form in her heart, and more than a little guilt along with it. Was something actually wrong? Hamilton had just been going off of countless moments over the past few months when Gilbert had come into her room gossiping or flailing around because he couldn’t handle someone’s sarcasm or awkward flirting. But if something was actually wrong, Hamilton felt more than a little honored that Gilbert had come to talk to her about it.

Hamilton arranged her features appropriately and said in a much softer voice, “Gil. You can tell me anything. Seriously. You know how much I care about you.”

Gilbert still looked at her with that disconcerting mixture of trepidation and...was that fear?

Hamilton took Gilbert’s hands in her own. “Hey. What’s going on?” She felt the need to keep talking, to reassure Gilbert that even though she really sucked at relating to people, she would do her absolute best because of what Gilbert meant to her.

“I promise I won’t judge you. At all,” she said.

When Gilbert didn’t respond, she laughed nervously. “Listen, whatever it is can’t be worse than the time Herc said he was lowkey attracted to horses, right?”

Gilbert choked a laugh, but it sounded forced.

For one of the first times in her life, Hamilton was at a complete loss for what to say. So, she did what she always did. She kept talking.

“Listen, if you’re worried I’ll give you bad advice, just be thankful you’re a guy and not a girl, I give the absolute _worst_ advice to all my girl friends because I really can’t even imagine putting myself in their shoes, but with you, I’m sure I’ll be able to-”

“I’m not a guy,” Gilbert blurted out.

And just like that, Hamilton’s constantly moving brain just…stopped.

“You’re…” Hamilton swallowed slowly. Suddenly her mouth was very dry. “You’re not a guy.”

“Oui,” Gil said nervously, eyes darting all around her face.

“I...what?” Hamilton’s brain was completely blank. Vaguely she felt feelings of panic begin as she realized there were no thoughts ricocheting around in her brain, none at all. The only time you stopped thinking was when you were dead. And Hamilton was very afraid that she was heading in that direction.

Gilbert stared resolutely at a spot on her comforter. “Chatonne, what do you know about being transgender?”

“What?” Hamilton was now in full-fledged panic mode. _How did he know how did he know he was going to tell everyone_ “I- nothing, why would you think that I-”

Gilbert stood up from the bed as if burned. “Désolé, this was a terrible idea…” Hamilton saw tears tracking down his cheeks. “I’ll just... go now.”

Before Hamilton could blink, Gilbert had bolted out of the room.

She sat there for a few minutes, completely shell-shocked, until she realized just how upset she must have made Gilbert.

Hamilton forced her legs to cooperate and ran out the door after him, cursing under her breath with every step.

* * *

She found Gilbert sulking in his own room, nothing but a slight bulge in the middle of the sea of blankets on his bed. He must have been able to see somehow, though, because a show was playing on his laptop.

Hamilton glanced at the screen and saw it was the episode of Doctor Who where the Eleventh Doctor gets trapped in an alien spaceship disguised like a 1980s hotel.

As Hamilton inched her way over to the bed, the Doctor’s tinny voice came from the speakers.

_“Have you found your room yet?”_

_“No. Is that good or bad?”_ That was Rory.

_“Maybe you’re not scared of anything.”_

“Gil?” Hamilton called over the sound of the show.

She heard Gilbert’s breath hitch, but he didn’t respond.

“Gil, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t- can I sit here?”

Gil’s voice came from underneath the covers. “If you must.”

Hamilton sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.

She bit her lip, completely unsure of how to proceed.

 _“_ _You know, Howie had been in speech therapy.”_ Rory continued from the screen. _“He’d just got over this massive stammer. Quite an achievement. I mean, can you imagine? I’d forgotten not all victories are about saving the universe.”_

She took a breath and began to speak. “Gil, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Gilbert poked his head out from under the blankets to look at her. Hamilton saw his eyes were red and puffy from crying.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Please talk to me.”

Gilbert suddenly sat up with a huff. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair, finally letting it hang from the back of his neck. He kept his eyes trained downwards and began to speak, his voice a hoarse rasp.

“What do you want, Catherine?” Hamilton flinched. Gilbert _never_ called her that. He knew how much she hated her name.

“Évidemment you are not wanting to listen to what I will say, so I do not see why,” Gilbert’s voice began to crack. “I do not see _why_ you are wishing for me to be speaking with you.”

Hamilton’s heart plummeted. Gilbert was extremely self-conscious about his English, and always concentrated on making sure it was perfect. It only started slipping when he was either very distracted or very upset.

“I do want to listen to what you have to say,” she said softly. “I was just- I _am_ just…” Hamilton forced down every instinct that was screaming for her to shut up. “...scared.” she finished.

Gilbert picked his head up and scrunched his eyebrows together, confused. “Scared? You mean... tu veux dire que tu es fâché, non?”

“No, Gil, I- I mean, I’m upset, but I’m not angry at you at all. I meant what I said. J’avais peur.”

Gilbert only looked more confused. “Why are _you_ afraid?”

Hamilton swallowed nervously. The laptop continued to play.

 _“...offer a child a suitcase full of sweets and they’ll take it. Offer someone all of time and space and they’ll take that, too,”_ the Doctor said _. “Which is why you shouldn’t. Which is why grown-ups were invented.”_

Hamilton desperately wanted to share the thoughts that had plagued her for years with Gilbert. But she had learned the hard way that most people were not nearly as accepting as you thought them to be.

 _Oh, come on!_ a very small voice in her head said. _He told you he’s not a guy! Why would he say that if he didn’t mean it?_

A much louder voice answered, _Because he knows about you. Because he’s trying to get you to admit it. Because he wants to tell the Washingtons what a freak you are. He’s just trying to make you feel comfortable, he didn’t mean a word of what he said-_

Hamilton rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She sat there for a long time while Gilbert stared at her nervously, completely at war with herself.

“Ma chatonne?” Gilbert asked tentatively.

Hamilton opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

 _“No,”_ the Doctor said from the laptop. It was the scene where the smart Muslim girl was sacrificing herself to the monster. _“No, no! Rita! Rita, please!”_

Hamilton knew how this scene ended. No matter how much the Doctor pleaded, Rita was lost forever.

Spots clouding her vision, Hamilton looked up at Lafayette and forced the words out before she could take them back. “I’m not a girl.”

Realization dawned on Lafayette’s face, but it was quickly replaced with suspicion. “Really?”

Hamilton’s voice suddenly wasn’t working. She sharply nodded once in lieu of answering.

“You’re not...tugging my arm?”

Hamilton couldn’t help but smile at that. “Pulling your leg,” she said. “And no. I’m not.”

Suddenly, Gilbert was crushing her in a hug. She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her mouth from the pain.

He pulled back slightly, concerned. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing, you just startled me-”

Gilbert felt around her back and she felt her blood run cold. “Chatonne, what is this?”

“Don’t worry about it-”

“ _What is it?”_

“...Duct tape?” Hamilton admitted abashedly.

“Quoi?!”

Gilbert tugged the hem of her shirt higher and looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head when he saw the tape she had wrapped around her chest.

“Chatonne, why would you do this?” Gilbert asked in a low voice.

“It’s fine, I do it all the time, I just can’t _deal_ with- with _that,_ ” she said, gesturing to her chest in disgust.

“Oh no, chatonne, this is not what you do! Here,” Gilbert reached over to his nightstand and pulled out a pair of scissors. “Let’s get that damned stuff off of you before you break a rib.”

Hamilton began to violently shake her head as she squirmed away from Gilbert’s reach. “No, no, Gil, I promise it’s not that bad-”

“Kit,” he said, looking at her square in the eye. “I understand what you’re going through, but this?” He gestured at her chest with an air of disgust. “This is not the answer. Can you keep still so I can get it off you?”

“No, come on, Gil, I’ve only had it on for two days-”

“ _Two days?!_ Chatonne, have you done _any_ research about this? How could you be so irresponsible?”

Hamilton felt tears begin to form in her eyes against her will. _Of course you’re crying,_ said the snide voice in her head. _Gotta do everything in your power to prove to the world you’re a girl, don’t you?_

“Gil, please, just...please don’t take this away from me.” she said, her voice barely a whisper by the end.

Gilbert’s eyes softened. “I promise there is a better way to do this. But you can get seriously hurt if you keep binding your chest with tape. Will you let me cut it off you?”

Hamilton huffed in indignation, wiping the tears off her face in annoyance, but she sat still enough that Gilbert could cut the tape off her.

Gilbert began to talk as he worked, transparently trying to distract her. “So,” he said, in between _snip_ s of the scissors _._ “Have you picked out a name yet? Or do you want to stick with Kit? And what are your pronouns?”

“What?” Hamilton asked, eyes fixed on the ceiling. _Snip._ “Gil, I really don’t appreciate you making stuff up.”

“I am a master of many things, chaton, but I do not do well with pretending,” Gil said. “For example, I would like for everyone to call me simply Lafayette instead of Gil or Gilbert, and I identify as non-binary. That means that I don’t think of myself as a boy or a girl, but rather...quelque part entre les deux?”

This conversation was much easier to have, Hamilton thought, when she didn’t have to look into Gil- _Lafayette’_ s eyes.

“Ok, I get that.” Hamilton would rather throw herself off a building than admit she didn’t understand something. And she did understand what Lafayette was talking about. Sort of. Swallowing down her questions about being non-binary, Hamilton decided to focus on the other stuff.

“But it’s not like you changed your name, you just picked a different part of yours.”

Lafayette was notorious for having the longest name any of his friends had ever heard of. And people were used to himbeing unconventional, so people probably wouldn’t even blink when he asked them to use a different name.

But it was the pronouns thing that really affected Hamilton. She tried to ignore the fluttering in her chest at the idea of being able to _choose_ how people talked about you. But there was no way anyone could just pick and choose what pronouns they wanted people to use for them. That didn’t make any sense at all. Did it?

“Do you want to change your name, chatonne?” Lafayette asked.

Hamilton gulped. She was really, really not ready for this conversation.

“There.” Lafayette said. Hamilton blinked and looked down. She had completely forgotten what Lafayette was doing.

“Would you like me to help you take the rest of it off, or do you want privacy?”

Hamilton gulped. Today had changed a lot, but there was no fucking way she was letting anyone look at her chest. “I’ll just go into the bathroom.”

She tugged her shirt back down and staggered out of Lafayette’s bathroom and into the hallway. She almost screamed bloody murder when she walked smack into Mrs. Washington.

“Catherine? Are you alright?” she asked, her brow knitting in concern.

Hamilton forced the lump in her throat down. “Fine, Mrs. Washington.”

Martha did not look the least bit convinced. “I told you to call me Martha,” she said like it was an automatic reflex. She frowned. “Honey, you look like you’ve been crying.”

“No, not at all,” Hamilton lied. “I was just watching TV with La- with Gilbert.”

Martha cupped Hamilton’s cheek in her hand and Hamilton had to use all her willpower not to flinch away. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Hamilton did her best to rearrange her features to mirror those of a person who was not currently having an existential crisis. “Absolutely.”

Martha dropped her hand. Suddenly her expression brightened. She smiled conspiratorially and leaned in close to Hamilton’s face, lowering her voice. “You wanna go break out the ice cream? I just got some Edy’s Double Chocolate Brownie from the store. It’s the absolute best. And we spend too much time with these boys anyway. How would you feel about an impromptu girl’s night?”

Hamilton felt her chest tighten unbearably, and she knew she couldn’t blame it on the duct tape anymore. She forced a laugh that sounded forced even to her own ears, and barely stopped to stammer some vague excuse before running to barricade herself in the bathroom.

She leaned with her back against the door and heaved a sigh of relief. She warily opened her eyes to glare at her reflection. Unfortunately, it only glared back.

* * *

Sore, and with the duct tape safely shoved to the bottom of the trash can, Hamilton made her way back to Lafayette’s room.

Wincing at the movement, she knocked on Lafayette’s door in an imitation of how they had knocked on her door before. Hamilton couldn’t believe it was only a few minutes ago; it felt like hours.

“Come in, chatonne!”

Hamilton walked in the room and went back to her spot on the bed. Lafayette had abandoned Doctor Who and closed the laptop so they would be able to talk.

“Laf,” Hamilton began. “What did you mean about pronouns?”

Lafayette saw right through her. “Chatonne, you know exactly what I mean. You are the, how you say, spelling fascist, after all.”

Hamilton chuckled weakly. “Grammar nazi?”

“Yes, that.”

Lafayette took Hamilton’s hands in their own. “Maybe you’d like they/them, like me?”

Hamilton definitely liked those better than she and her, but something about them still didn’t sit right. Lafayette had said they thought of themself as being in between male and female. That was definitely not how Hamilton felt.

But the words kept getting caught in her throat.

“Well...would- would it be ok if I wanted he and him?” Hamilton said, her voice trailing off to nothing by the end.

Lafayette grinned. “Of course, mon chou. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Hamilton squirmed. “Well, I mean, I don’t look like a guy, so isn’t that…not ok?”

“Non! It doesn’t matter what you look like, you can go with anything that makes you feel comfortable.”

It was difficult with the uneasy feeling swirling around in his stomach, but Hamilton managed a grin.

“And what do you think about your name?” Lafayette asked.

Hamilton pursed his lips. “I...I really don’t know. You just picked a different part of yours. I’ve been telling people at school to call me Hamilton, but that’s not going to last for long.”

“You can pick anything you want, mon chou.” Lafayette said. “Anything that calls to you.”

Suddenly, Hamilton had an idea. “You know what?” He hastily got up, wincing at the pinching in his side, and made his way out the door.

"Where are you going?" Lafayette called after him.

“I’ve got an idea!”

* * *

Hamilton made his way back to his own room and gingerly sat down on his bed. He pried open his laptop and opened Safari.

The cursor blinked at him accusingly. He took a deep breath. He knew that if he was going to do this name thing, if he was going to admit this was all for real, he was going to do it right. There would be no half-assed random name for him. Hamilton knew his mother had picked _Catherine_ for a reason. He already felt guilty for refusing to be his mother’s daughter any longer, but there was nothing he could do about that. What he _could_ do was pick a name that meant something, a name that was connected with the name his mother chose but far enough away that he could live with it.

He typed _Catherine name meaning_ into the search bar and hit Enter.

The most popular website popped up first and gave him a sample of the article. It read:

_The name Catherine is a French baby name._

That...definitely did not help.

_In French, the meaning of the name Catherine is: pure, clear._

Hamilton snorted. If there was anything he wasn’t, it was pure. If he made that joke to Laf, they would pout and insist that no matter what Hamilton went through, he was untainted, he was still pure, and no one could ever tell him otherwise- yeah. Better not share that with them. This was the kind of joke that was only funny to him.

_Form of the Latin Katharina, from the Greek Aikaterina._

That was interesting. Hamilton was always a sucker for some good old-fashioned Latin and Greek. But it still didn’t help him all that much.

_It was borne by a number of saints, including St. Catherine of Alexandria, a 4th century martyr who suffered torture on a spiked wheel._

Without quite realizing what he was doing, he typed _St. Catherine of Alexandria_ into the search bar, his fingers hovering over the last word.

He pressed enter and clicked on the first link.

 _Patron Saint of students_ , it said.

He scrolled down and read the rest of the description:

_Although she was a teenager, she was very intelligent and gifted. When the emperor Maxentius began persecuting Christians, Catherine visited him to denounce his cruelty._

_Rather than order her execution, Maxentius summoned fifty orators and philosophers to debate her. However, Catherine was moved by the power of the Holy Spirit and spoke eloquently in defense of her faith. Her words were so moving that several of the pagans converted to Christianity and were immediately executed._

_Unable to defeat her rhetorically or to intimidate her into giving up her belief, the emperor ordered her to be tortured and imprisoned._

Hamilton grinned. This girl was alright. This girl was _more_ than alright. She was everything Hamilton aspired to be. Reading that article almost made him wish he could keep the name Catherine. Almost.

But just like he wanted to stay connected to the name Catherine, maybe he could stay connected to this girl, too.

He scrolled back up to the stats section and read the name of her place of death and birth. It was in her name, but he had forgotten it in his haste.

_Alexandria._

That wasn’t better, masculinity-wise, but what about...no. No way. He felt something stir inside him at the thought. He really, really liked the sound of that. But it was one thing to think he was a guy. To choose a name, to choose an especially _masculine_ sounding name like that...that would be the point of no return. If he picked that name, there would be absolutely no turning back.

Without quite realizing he was holding his breath, he typed in _Alexander name meaning._

The screen now read:

_In Greek, the meaning of the name Alexander is: defender of men._

Hamilton laughed. He really, truly laughed. It started as a giggle and quickly became a full belly laugh, the kind of laugh that hadn’t come out of him in a very long time.

 _Defender of men?_

Hamilton threw himself down onto the bed and laughed until he was gasping for breath.

Damn right, he’d have to defend men. One particular man in particular.

By taking up this name, he would have to dedicate his life to defending his masculinity. It was a tall order. But isn’t that what he did anyway? Fight for what was right? He always stood up for the kid getting picked on in class, always did everything in his power to fight against jackasses until they agreed with him or got too tired to keep arguing. He had always known that that was his calling; how fitting was it that this name was an extension of that?

He knew deep in his bones, right then and there, that Alexander was the name he was meant to have. From this day forward, he’d do everything he could to live up to it. He would dedicate his life to making his mother proud of him.

Still grinning, Alexander closed his laptop, turned off the lamp, and tried his best to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel extremely embarrassed by the number of italicized words in this chapter. Oh well. 
> 
> The Doctor Who episode Lafayette is watching is called “The God Complex.” If you couldn’t already tell, I am a massive whovian.
> 
> St. Catherine of Alexandria was a real person! All the things Alex reads about her come directly from a real Google search I did. I picked Catherine initially because it was the only other girl's name I could think of from that period other than Elizabeth and Martha. Also, Eliza's mother was named Catherine. I couldn't believe how amazingly similar St. Catherine of Alexandria was to Hamilton when I read about her, and I knew at that moment that there couldn't be any other name for my Alexander. 
> 
> Please comment if you enjoyed this. Comments sustain me and are 99% of my motivation to keep writing.


	3. I Still See Your Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with “Goblin Market” by Christina Rossetti.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place a couple of months after the previous chapter.
> 
> The only thing you need to know is that Alex and Laf have not come out to George and Martha yet. So, George and Martha still use their old pronouns and call them Catherine and Gilbert.
> 
> Because of the insane amount of French, there are translations in the end notes.

Almost every night, Lafayette would stand in Alex’s doorway with their hands on their hips and frown.

“Tu vas dormir ce soir, chaton.” they’d say. Alex would moan and groan, but would turn off the light and get in his pajamas and get under the covers. But when Lafayette left the room, Alexander would get right back up again and write until dawn.

Nothing bad ever happened as long as he was writing.

Tonight, Alexander had actually listened to Lafayette’s advice. Not that he had wanted to. His eyelids were simply drooping too much to stay awake. His whole body felt heavy. With his hand sitting on his fist as he wrote in his notebook, he felt himself falling asleep but was completely unable to stop it. He felt almost disconnected from his body when his head slid off his fist and onto the desk with a dull thud.

Alexander knew he was much too far gone to wake up, but he still tried as hard as he could.

No, no, no, no no nononononononono no-

_And suddenly, he was in a storm._

_It was as if he were being stabbed by needles on every square inch of his body. The roar of the wind was endless, and grew louder and louder until Alexander was sure he’d never hear anything else for as long as he lived. Water sluiced down his face, and he wasn’t sure if it was the rain or his tears._

_He was standing outside the wreckage of his house, the water up to his knees. He’d left that shell of broken glass and splintered wood to look for his brother. Jem had gone to a friend’s the day before and Alexander hadn’t seen him since. Alex felt an ache for Jem that ran deeper than the numbness in his legs, the pain all over his body, the cuts on his hands from trying to fix the windows. All he knew was that he needed to find him._

_“Jem!” he screamed against the force of the wind. He could barely hear his own voice over its cruel roar._

_The water pulled at him so strongly that he was sure there must be some swirling vortex behind him, aching to suck him in and drown him for eternity._

_“Jem!”_

_Alexander grabbed onto what was left of the fence that sat around his house and squinted at the sky. He saw no mercy there. Only darkness, and lightning, and pain._

_An earsplitting crack rang through the air. Alex turned to see one of the tallest trees on the block break clean in half and crush the house next to his into dust._

_All around him, people started screaming. Not for help, or mercy, or for God. They all knew none of that was coming. These screams were animalistic, just raw pain and fear and hopelessness._

_“Jem!”_

_Alexander staggered across what used to be the street. Somehow, there was a house there that was fully intact. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?_

_This doesn’t make any sense you’re dreaming wake up wake up wake_ **_up_ ** _-_

_Alexander couldn’t stop himself from dragging his body toward the house._

_He knew that Jem was inside there, he needed to find him, needed to save him, needed to-_

_Alex threw the door open and it slammed right back into his face. He screamed as the front of the wall was ripped away by the wind. He forced the door open again, and halfway across the threshold, he stopped in his tracks. He knew this house. This house did not belong here, in this hell on earth._

_He felt dread seep into his bones as he knew exactly what he would find here. But even so, he couldn’t stop moving forward until he reached George’s office._

_The piano was in shambles; what wasn’t completely submerged was smashed beyond recognition._

_He tore his eyes away from the sight ran out of the office. He skidded into the living room, knowing exactly what he would see._

_It wasn’t Jem’s water-bloated body that he saw on the floor, with dead eyes sunken into his skull and limbs twisted beyond recognition. Not this time._

_It was Lafayette, and George, and Martha, and oh god their_ **_faces-_ **

_He fell to his knees._

_And somehow, even though Alexander knew she had died long, long before this ever began, his mother was there, too._

_She was just as Alexander had last seen her. She was huddled against the wall, hand frozen in midair where it had been clutching at his arm. The sound that came out of his mouth when he saw the sores and blisters covering her face, her closed and sunken eyes, couldn’t be called a scream. It sounded inhuman even to his own ears. He looked down at his arms and saw the same blisters all over his skin. He wasn’t surprised._

_For some reason, the water wasn’t rising over his head. Everything was almost frozen, in this permanent state of decay. His own personal hell. Completely alone, but unable to ever escape._

_Alexander closed his eyes, his chest heaving with gasps that weren’t taking in any air, and waited for death._

_It never came. Just as he knew it wouldn’t._

* * *

Lafayette was woken up by screaming.

They shot up out of bed and lunged toward the hallway, banging their head on the doorframe in their haste.

“Merde!” they yelled, clutching their head.

The screams only got louder, and Lafayette realized they were coming from Alexander’s room.

They barrelled out into the hallway, their sock-covered feet sliding on the hardwood floor.

They turned the knob on Alexander’s bedroom door, but found it locked.

“Mon chou?” they called, banging on the door.

The screams abruptly stopped.

“Chaton?”

Lafayette heard soft sounds coming from inside the room, something that sounded like...laughter?

Alexander started speaking to himself in between the laughs. Lafayette only caught a few words.

“... je suis sorti de...vraiment...en sécurité...c'était juste...rêve affreux ...”

Lafayette sighed and felt the tension drain out of his shoulders. Alexander had just had a bad dream, from the sound of it. He was awake, and seemed to be ok. Well, as ok as he was going to get.

“Chaton?” he called through the door crack. “Can you let me in now?”

Suddenly, Alexander’s laughs and mumbles turned to deafening silence. Lafayette shoved his ear even harder against the crack of the door to try and listen. Alexander had started crying again, muttering frantically under his breath.

“Non, non, éloigne toi de moi,” Alexander gasped between sobs from inside the room. Of course. It was very like Alexander to be ashamed and embarrassed, to wish Lafayette would leave him alone.

“I am not going anywhere, mon chou,” Lafayette called through the door, “until I know you are alright.”

“Tu devrais être à la domicile,” he whimpered.

Lafayette frowned. What on earth did he mean by that?

“No perteneces aquí, mama, tu estás muerto, tu moriste hace mucho tiempo.”

Lafayette was getting very worried now. They didn’t speak Spanish, but they definitely heard _mama._ Alexander had barely started calling Martha by her given name, and he definitely did _not_ call her that.

Something was very, very wrong.

Lafayette tore themself away from Alex’s door and ran to the Washington’s room.

* * *

Martha woke up to the sound of a door slamming into the wall.

Her eyes snapped open, but George had already bolted up and out of bed at the noise.

The haze of sleep clouding her thoughts was suddenly gone as she realized what George must be thinking.

“George,” she mumbled, blindly reaching out toward him. Her fingertips grazed his shoulder and he jerked away like he’d been burned.

“What is it? What’s going on?” George snapped at someone standing in the doorway.

Martha turned to see Gilbert standing there, chest heaving as if he’d run a mile.

Her chest seized as she realized something must be very, very wrong. Gilbert knew just as well as she did that being startled awake, especially by loud noises, made George feel as if he was back in the war. Gilbert wouldn’t have done it unless it was an emergency.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Martha asked, sitting up in bed and rubbing her eyes. She reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, throwing the anguish on Gilbert’s face into sharp relief.

“Ale- Cath, Catherine is screaming,” he stuttered out. “Well, not screaming anymore, but…”

“Is she alright?” George asked, still coiled tight as a wire. “Did you go and see?”

But Gilbert seemed totally inside his own head.

“Oh mon dieu,” he started to ramble, “j'ai essayé de lui faire ouvrir la porte, mais au début il était endormi. Et maintenant je pense...” he trailed off, his gaze becoming fixed on something in the distance.

Martha knew that when Gilbert got very anxious, he lost the ability to translate what he was saying into English in his head. What on earth had made him like this? She felt panic of her own coming on as her mind forced her to think of worst case scenario.

“Gilbert,” she called to him softly.

But he started pacing across the room, running his hands wildly through his hair. Martha was momentarily struck dumb by how much he reminded her of Catherine.

“Je- je pense,” he continued, “qu'il parle à sa mère, sa mère _décédée_ , celle qui, celle qui est _morte_ de maladie il y a longtemps?”

Martha didn’t know French. But she would bet her life savings that _morte_ meant _dead._

“Honey, you need to calm down, we can’t understand you-”

“J’ai bien peur qu’il voit sa mère dans sa chambre. Comment est-ce possible?”

_“Gilbert-”_

“J'ai bien peur que quelque chose ne va vraiment pas chez lui. Qu'est-ce qu'on va faire? Que _diable_ allons-nous faire?”

Martha climbed out of bed and gripped his shoulders. He blinked after a few seconds, seeming to numbly register the touch.

“Breathe, Gilbert,” she said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look into her eyes. She took in a deep breath, trying to get him to mirror her. After a few breaths, he was matching the rise and fall of her chest with his own.

“Now,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, “what’s going on?”

Gilbert swallowed nervously. “We need to get into Al- _Catherine’s_ room. I think h- she needs help.”

Martha found herself nodding encouragingly. Who she was trying to encourage, she wasn’t sure. “Ok, we’ll get the key. There’s a key to unlock it from the outside. Honey, it’s in the junky drawer, in the kitchen, can you go get it?”

Gilbert barreled out the door as quickly as he had come.

Martha turned to George. “Are you ok?”

He nodded sharply, averting his eyes. “It’s not me we have to worry about.”

Normally, Martha would argue with him, but her daughter needed her. She heard Gilbert running back up the stairs, and made a beeline for Catherine’s bedroom door.

* * *

There were bombs going off.

George tried to block the sound out of his head, to make his breathing slow down, but it was useless.

_Sir, it’s General Howe, he’s gotten through the line, we need to get everyone out-_

He shook his head sharply. He felt like his brain was rattling around his skull in time with the gunshots.

Martha didn’t have to know what was going on. Neither did Catherine or Gilbert. They needed him right now, and he’d make sure that he took care of everything.

With shaking fingers, he took the keys from Gilbert’s hands and pushed Catherine’s door open.

The lights were off, and for a moment George thought that Catherine was simply asleep.

But then his eyes slowly traveled to the wall opposite the door.

If anything could distract him from his flashbacks, it was definitely this.

Catherine was huddled on the floor, shoving her face into the corner of the wall as if she couldn’t bear to turn and look at the rest of the room, muttering something to herself.

George started to make his way toward her, but Martha held him fast. He turned back to look at his wife, surrounded by the glow of the light in the hall, and bit back what he was going to say at the look on her face.

“Don’t worry,” he said in the calmest voice he could manage, eyes flitting between Martha’s mask of concern and Gilbert’s eyes full of raw fear. “I got this.”

He began to slowly walk over to where Catherine was on the floor. As he got closer, he began to hear what she was saying to herself.

“S'il te plaît, retourne sur l'île, je veux juste me _reposer_ …”

“Catherine?” George said softly.

She flinched at the sound of his voice. “Lo siento, prometo que seré bueno esta vez, no me hagas hacer esto otra vez-”

George sat down as lightly as he could manage next to her on the floor. “Kid, I would really like it if you could look at me.”

She shook her head violently.

Filled with hope at the sight of her acknowledging what he said, George asked her, “Why not?”

She mumbled something he couldn’t hear.

“What was that, kid?”

“We must not look at goblin men,” Catherine said, voice ragged from screaming.

George was thrown off guard. He glanced toward Gilbert and Martha to see if they knew what she was talking about.

Realization dawned on Gilbert’s face. “Oh.”

“What?” George asked him. “What does it mean?”

“It’s- it’s by Christina Rossetti.”

That decidedly did not help.

George’s glare must have kickstarted Gilbert’s mind, because he hurriedly said, “It’s from a Doctor Who episode we watched the other night, Georges. There is this- this monster woman, and the Doctor is trying to get the people to be not looking at her, and this girl is, is to be quoting that poem. A- Catherine really was liking it, and looked up the rest.”

George turned back to Catherine.

“We must not look at goblin men,” she said again, rocking back and forth almost completely unconsciously. “We must not buy their fruits. Who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry, thirsty roots?”

“Catherine, I promise there’s no monsters here,” George said.

Catherine didn’t seem to have heard him.

“Come buy,” she continued, hugging her knees closer to her chest, “call the goblins hobbling down the glen. Oh, cried Lizzie, Laura, Laura, you should not peep at goblin men. Lizzie covered up her eyes, covered close lest they should look.”

George pushed the thought of _how the fuck did she memorize that entire thing_ away to be filed later under “Things I Will Never Understand.” He knew Catherine was intelligent, but this was off the scale.

 _Maybe,_ a little voice in his head said, _it’s a coping mechanism she made so she wouldn’t have to think about all this shit._

That did not make George feel better, to say the least.

“Hey,” George said. “There’s no monster or goblin or anything here. Sure, Martha looks a little scary before her coffee, but I promise everything’s ok.”

Catherine just kept shaking her head. “Je veux juste sortir.”

George’s heart sank as she reverted back to speaking in French. Without thinking, he reached out to touch her shoulder.

He breathed a sigh of relief as she didn’t jerk back from him. Sure, she flinched a bit, but didn’t try to get away from his touch entirely.

“What do you think you’ll see if you turn around, honey?” Martha asked. When she and Gilbert had sat down next to him, George wasn’t sure. Martha put her hand on Catherine’s other shoulder, and the muscles in Catherine’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly.

Catherine mumbled something.

“What’s that?” George asked.

_“Elle.”_

George furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“She means, ‘her’,” Gilbert whispered.

“Who?” Martha asked.

And suddenly, it was like a dam broke.

“It’s my _maman_ , she was in the nightmare, and that’s all it was, because then I woke up and you weren’t here so I knew it was a dream but then I turned around and she was still here and _you can’t get close_ because she’s sick, she’s so sick, and I thought I wouldn’t catch it but I did, but even then I still didn’t die, I still can’t die, I’m stuck like this, et s'il te plaît, _tu devez sortir pendant que vous le pouvez encore._ ”

With every word George felt worse and worse for Catherine. This poor kid. What the hell had she been through to make her get like this? They knew some of it from her file, some of it from what Catherine had told them, but most of her background had been lost in the immigration process.

George’s mouth opened and closed over and over again, but he was at a complete loss as to what to say. He thought of Catherine as his own child, and couldn’t bear to see her like this.

“I promise she’s not here,” he said as quietly as he could, sounding almost as ragged as Catherine did. “Look, you could just turn around and see for yourself. She died a long time ago. I’m so sorry, but you know that’s true, it’s just the four of us here, son-”

Catherine’s muscles tightened, and she whipped her head around to look George in the face. Out of the corner of his mind, George heard Gilbert gasp.

_Talk about a freudian slip. Nice job, wiseguy. You can lead an entire army into battle, but you can’t speak properly to a child?_

He and Martha had always wanted a son. When they weren’t able to have any of their own, they turned to the foster agencies. Of course, they were completely over the moon when Catherine came to their doorstep, but the desire hadn’t gone away. The two of them had agreed never to mention it to Catherine. The last thing they wanted was to make her feel like she wasn’t good enough. But George didn’t feel as if Catherine was _less than_ the son he’d always wanted; on the contrary, he felt like Catherine was the fulfillment of that wish.

But he wasn’t an idiot. He’d never said it out loud.

Well. Maybe he was more of an idiot than he thought he was.

George felt like he was going to melt into the floor at the sight of Catherine’s face. He felt completely unable to handle the blazing intensity in her eyes as she stared him down. There was more emotion in those eyes than he had ever seen in a person’s face. Even though every instinct was screaming at him to look away, he held her gaze.

“I’m sorry, Catherine,” he said hoarsely, hurriedly trying to cover up his mistake. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I just meant that I, that we care about you, of course I know you’re a girl-”

“Not,” she said, so softly George almost didn’t hear it.

_What?_

George exchanged a glance with Martha and saw that she was just as confused as he was.

Before George could open his mouth to ask, Gilbert starting speaking to Catherine in rapid-fire French.

“Mon chaton, tu es sûr? Tu êtes extrêmement contrarié. Peut-être devriez-tu dormir d'abord et décider le matin. Tu avez dit que tu ne vouliez pas leur dire, et je ne pense pas que tu devriez prendre une autre décision tant que tu êtes contrarié-”

Catherine glared at him and began to speak, albeit much more slowly than Gilbert had. “Je vais parfaitement bien. Laissez-moi leur dire.” She glanced around the room like she was looking for something, and sagged when she didn’t find it. “Elle est partie maintenant, de toute façon.”

Gilbert looked even more upset than Catherine had. “Es-tu sûr de-”

_“Oui.”_

Gilbert shut his mouth and glanced anxiously at the three of them.

George was torn between being hopelessly confused and being overjoyed that Catherine seemed to be returning to normal- well, whatever _normal_ meant.

She now sat cross-legged on the floor, turned toward their little circle and away from the wall. She seemed to be breathing normally, and her eyes seemed clear as she glanced at each of them in turn.

Catherine straightened her back as much as she was able and looked George square in the eye. She seemed like she was steeling herself for something.

“I’m not a girl,” she said, her unsteady voice and shaking hands belying her stiff posture. “I’m a boy. My name is Alexander. And if you don’t like it, you can- you can go fuck yourselves.”

Martha let out a little choked sound. George was too stunned to do anything.

Faster than he could blink, Martha threw herself at Cath- at _their son_.

S- _He_ inhaled sharply, completely startled by Martha’s action. He looked as if he half expected Martha to attack him, but when she only started crying, he wrapped his arms around her and dug his face into her shoulder.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Martha was saying into Alexander’s shoulder, “why didn’t you _tell_ us, why on _earth_ did you keep it from us until now, honey, you _know_ how much we love you…”

George was sitting in a sort of trance, watching Martha fuss over Alexander unendingly. The small part of his brain that wasn’t in overload remarked that she would probably never stop fussing over him for as long as they both lived.

George turned to Gilbert, since he knew he wasn’t going to get to Alexander for a while, and saw that he was eyeing George nervously.

“How long have you known?” George asked him quietly.

“ _Bon_...a while. The only reason he told me before you was...was because I’m not cis either. Nonbinary. They/them,” Gilbert swallowed nervously. “Surprise.”

George finally regained use of his limbs drew Gilbert into a crushing hug.

“You know we’ll love you to pieces no matter what, right?” he said next to Gilbert’s ear.

Gilbert sighed in relief and said hoarsely, “Also, would you mind calling me Lafayette, instead of Gilbert?”

George hugged them tighter. “I wouldn’t mind calling you the Queen of Sheba.”

After a while, George heard Martha’s frantic tirade die down.

“Well,” he said with a huff, “I definitely don’t think any of us are going to forget this night anytime soon.”

Alexander’s laugh was muffled by Martha’s shoulder.

George made eye contact with him through their respective hugs, and smiled broadly.

“I know things are very far away from being alright,” George said to Alexander, “but we’re going to make sure you’re taken care of, son.”

He really added that at the end just to see Alexander’s radiant grin spread across his face, the brightest one yet since George had met him. All the remaining tension drained out of Alexander’s shoulders. George untangled himself from Lafayette so he could envelop his entire little family in an embrace. Their knees knocked together and George’s left arm got a little squished, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

(Much to Lafayette’s chagrin, none of them did get much more sleep that night.)

* * *

The next day, Lafayette sat down next to Alexander on his bed.

”You know what I realized, frérot?”

”What?”

“You are not a kitten at all. You are much too brave for me to call you that. I think you are a lion.”

Alexander paused, like he was thinking it over. “You know, I actually like the sound of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “Tu vas dormir ce soir, chaton.” - “You’re going to sleep tonight, kitten.”
> 
> “Merde!” - “Shit!”
> 
> “Mon chou?” - Literally “my cabbage,” but basically “sweetie.”
> 
> “Chaton?” - “Kitten?”
> 
> “... je suis sorti de...vraiment...en sécurité...c'était juste...rêve affreux ...” - “...I came out of...really...safe...it was just...awful dream…”
> 
> “Non, non, éloigne toi de moi,” - “No, no, get away from me,”
> 
> “Tu devrais être à la domicile,” - “You should be at home,”
> 
> “No perteneces aquí, mama, tu estás muerto, tu moriste hace mucho tiempo.” - “You don’t belong here, mama, you’re dead, you died a long time ago.”
> 
> “Oh mon dieu, j'ai essayé de lui faire ouvrir la porte, mais au début il était endormi. Et maintenant je pense...” - “Oh my god, I tried to make him open the door, but at first he was asleep. And now I think…”
> 
> “Je- je pense, qu'il parle à sa mère, sa mère décédée , celle qui, celle qui est morte de maladie il y a longtemps?” - “I- I think he’s talking to his mother, his dead mother, the one who, who died from sickness a long time ago?”
> 
> “J'ai bien peur qu'il voit sa mère dans sa chambre. Comment est-ce possible?” - “I’m afraid he’s seeing his mother in his room. How is that possible?”
> 
> “J'ai bien peur que quelque chose ne va vraiment pas chez lui. Qu'est-ce qu'on va faire? Que diable allons-nous faire?” - “I’m afraid that something is really wrong with him. What are we going to do? What the hell are we going to do?”
> 
> “S'il te plaît, retourne sur l'île, je veux juste me reposer …” - “Pleaase, go back to the island, I just want to rest…”
> 
> “Lo siento, prometo que seré bueno esta vez, no me hagas hacer esto otra vez-” - “I’m sorry, I promise I’ll be good this time, don’t make me do this again-”
> 
> “...et s'il te plaît, tu devez sortir pendant que vous le pouvez encore.” - “...and please, you need to get out while you still can.”
> 
> “Mon chaton, tu es sûr? Tu êtes extrêmement contrarié. Peut-être devriez-tu dormir d'abord et décider le matin. Tu avez dit que tu ne vouliez pas leur dire, et je ne pense pas que tu devriez prendre une autre décision tant que tu êtes contrarié-” - “My kitten, are you sure? You are extremely upset. Maybe you should sleep first and decide in the morning. You said you did not want to tell them, and I do not think you should make another decision as long as you’re upset-”
> 
> “Je vais parfaitement bien. Laissez-moi leur dire.” - “I’m perfectly fine. Let me tell them.”
> 
> “Elle est partie maintenant, de toute façon.” - “She’s gone now, anyway.”
> 
> “Es-tu sûr de-” - “Are you sure about-”
> 
> Frérot - little brother
> 
> -
> 
> Is this really the last chapter?? Who knows?? Certainly not me.
> 
> Thanks so much for following me on this journey through Alex and Lafayette’s dynamic in the Washington household. You know how comments sustain my existence, so any thought would be very much appreciated. I hope you enjoyed!


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